Flashman and the Throne of Swords
by Technomad
Summary: When it becomes possible to travel between nineteenth-century Earth and Westeros, Britain needs its finest to represent it at King Robert's court. Who better to call than Sir Harry Flashman? (Actually, almost anybody else would do, but he's burdened with his reputation.)
1. Chapter 1

_Flashman and the Throne of Swords_

A _Flashman/Song of Ice and Fire_ crossover fic

by Technomad

Chapter 1.

(from _The Flashman Papers,_ written ca. 1905-1915)

For all that I'm a monarchist myself, I can't deny that when kings and queens go bad, they have scope for going bad that we common folk can't dream of. In my time I've stood, quaking and trying to put up a brave show, before some of the worst of 'em. Ranavalona of Madagascar, Hung Hsiu-chuan of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, Gezo of Dahomey and Theodore of Abyssinia…aye, those monsters populate my dreams, when I'm unwise enough to dine on cheese and lobster. But the youngest, and one of the worst, was Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms et cetera, who bid fair to become a worse tyrant than the worst I've seen or heard of. And all at age thirteen, at that.

I've no illusions about the young of the species. I was one once myself, and graduated from being a sneak and a toady to a bully and general rotter. But at my most powerful, all I had command of was the common-room at Rugby school, and the only subjects I had were the sniveling fags whom I could order tossed in blankets or roasted in front of fires.(1) Joff, at a younger age than I'd been when I'd lorded it at Rugby, was a _king_, don't ye see, and could order your head put on a spike if it occurred to him that he might like it better there. He nearly decided, several times, to do just that to me, and 'twasn't his fault that I survived my adventures in his benighted Seven Kingdoms.

'Twas in the year 1858 that our scientific johnnies learned that a certain mechanism could send our ships to another world-a world where seasons lasted for years instead of months, a world that seemed to be stuck in the Middle Ages. Even I, lacking all interest in anything more scientific than the best way to get the knickers off an upstairs maid, could not help but notice the results.

For a while, Westeros and Westerosi fashions were all the rage. Elspeth had several "authentically Westerosi" gowns run up (at a price no more than middling ruinous) which, I noted later, were no more authentically Westerosi than I am. Reams of bad poetry were written about the wars and history of Westeros. Reading between the lines, the place sounded decidedly dangerous, and I made up my mind to keep well away from it. I'd just made my way back to home and beauty from some hair-raising adventures in the Mutiny, and had no mind to stir from London again. Of course, I've made such resolutions many times in my life-much good they ever did me!

When I received an invitation-read, "command" from dear Vicky to attend her at Buckingham, I sensed that the writing was on the wall for old Flashy. There had been a Westerosi delegation there for some time, and as a well-known traveller and survivor of various far places, my opinion would be wanted.

The invitation found me in Zoola, where I had just concluded a particularly hair-raising series of adventures in Abyssinia, including enough peril to send anybody sane shrieking for asylum. I'd survived mad Emperor Theodore's court, being swept off a waterfall, the hostility of a princess, and several battles. Honestly, I sometimes think I'd have done better going into the Church, or reading for the Bar. I knew something was rum, and the next thing I heard confirmed it.

"Flash," says the cove I'm talking to, a Navy lieutenant, "we've been sent here with a short-list of people our dear Queen wants to see, _toute-suite_. Your name's near the top of that list. Good job I found you."

So, home and beauty beckoned, even though it included a stop at Buck House. Discreet inquiry told me, to my relief, that once I was in Alexandria, the ship wouldn't be stopping until we were dropping anchor at Portsmouth. I'd no desire to go ashore on French soil; the frog-eaters were still on the lookout for me for deserting their foul Foreign Legion in Mexico, even if I had done it at an Emperor's command (2). Austria might also be perilous; the kraut-eating admiral whose niece I'd debauched while escorting poor Max's corpse back to native soil (3) might still be nursing spite against me, and plotting vengeance should he lay hands on Flashy. It's hell sometimes, when people won't let go of grudges. Much I should talk, though-the next grudge I let go of will be the first.

I'd never have done for the Navy, but I must say, when they put their minds to a task there's nobody else like 'em. In what seemed like jig time, I was looking out at the English shoreline in Plymouth from the railing of my ship, and already fondly anticipating a reunion with my sweet, feather-brained Elspeth. She'd been notified that I was on the way, which I hoped meant that the little trollop had cleared out whatever fancy-men she had taken up with while I was safely out of the way. I'd no desire to walk in on her in a compromising position with some swaggering arrogant pinhead. The scene we'd had before I went off to the Crimea was still fresh in my memory,(4) and I didn't want a second act of the same damned farce.

Elspeth was delighted to see me, of course. She always is, bless her; she may well have been doing the mattress quadrille with half of Society while I was gone, but you'd never have guessed it from the fervor she showed, welcoming "her Hector" home. When I told her we were bidden to Buck House, she gave a squeal that nearly deafened me.

"The Queen wishes to see us! Oh, Harry! I must wear my finest gown, of the latest style, and you must wear your medals! What could Her Majesty want? Could she wish to ennoble you?"

Privately, I thought that me becoming "Lord Flashman" was about as likely as me joining the Plymouth Bretheren, but I left her to her fantasies. My knighthood had already made her monstrous snobbish, and I rather imagined that if I ended up in the Lords, she'd get her head so swollen with self-importance that we'd need to modify the doors at Gandamack to accommodate her. Although it did occur to me that if we did get bumped up high enough, I might find myself nobler than James bloody Brudenell, the Earl of Cardigan. Which would be very sweet revenge for the way he'd turfed me out of his moth-eaten regiment for marrying Elspeth, damn him.(5)

A few days later, we were being shown into Buckingham Palace, which is rather like a very large morgue with a lot of expensive paintings on the walls. The servants were as insolent as ever, and I thought longingly of having 'em in the Army under my command; a good flogging apiece was no less than what they deserved. By now my sweet scatterbrain was not flustered merely by being in the Royal Presence, so at least I was spared the task of calming her down sufficient to do the necessary.

As always, Vicky was dressed in deepest mourning. It was seven years since the fathead Albert had passed on, and I thought it a trifle excessive, but nobody could sway our gracious sovereign lady when her mind was made up. She welcomed us pleasantly enough, though. "Sir Harry! And Lady Flashman! Do please make yourselves _comfortable_! We have _long_ awaited your arrival, Sir Harry. We have _a most important_ mission to entrust to you!"

This did not sound good, not for a minute it didn't. Given my undeserved reputation for fire-eating derring-do, I didn't think for a second that Vicky had called for me to unstop some stubborn drains. Of course, that blithering idiot I married was all enthusiasm, burbling "But, your Majesty, of course dear Harry would love to do anything you require of him! He's so brave!"

Vicky turned her pop eyes toward Elspeth. "And _you,_ Lady Flashman, shall have a _part to play _as well. The _task at hand_ would be done better by a _married couple_."

At the thought of actually sharing in my exploits, darling Elspeth was torn between delight and puzzlement. Puzzlement won out. "Why, whatever do you mean, your Majesty? I'm just a simple Scottish girl who had the luck to marry the best, bravest, most unsullied cavalier that ever lived…" Had I had less self-control, I might have rolled my eyes in amusement. Either Elspeth, like every other fool in Her Majesty's dominions, believed all the stories about me despite having lived with me for so long, or she was much sharper than she let on, and was subtly pulling Vicky's leg. I've never been able to decide just which one was the case.

Vicky sipped at her tea, looking remarkably like her Hanover uncles. "We would never send an _official envoy _to a _foreign court_ without his _loving spouse_ at his side." At this, Elspeth and I exchanged puzzled glances. I'd had a little to do with the diplomatic, mostly during the Sikh imbroglio(6) but it was by no means what I was best-known for. And I privately thought that my talent for languages, and for getting along with various homicidal foreigners, disqualified me forever from her gracious Majesty's diplomatic service. At least, the diplomatic wallahs I'd met mostly lacked those qualities. For some of them (the Scots in particular) English was difficult enough, without trying to wrap their heads around whatever Mumbo-Jumbo-landish dialect was spoken where they'd fetched up. As for getting along with the locals…words fail me!

Elspeth gave a squeal of joy. "Oh, your Majesty, you honour us so highly! Imagine it…my Harry, an Ambassador!" Vicky shook her head, and Elspeth subsided, looking puzzled.

"No, Lady Flashman, We have _another person_ in mind for the Ambassadorship. Your husband shall be _an attaché_ to the embassy."

"Who's been tapped for the ambassador's slot?" I asked. This was getting rum-er by the minute, and my sixth sense for danger was screaming at me. Unfortunately, under the Queen's eye (not to mention Elspeth) there was nothing for it but to face the music, even with my guts threatening to do the polka.

The Queen looked inordinately pleased, as though she were a cat who not only had eaten the canary, but had got the dog blamed. "Why, who _else_ but our dear Captain Sir Richard Burton? While We do not _care_ for his wife's _inordinate attachment_ to the Roman _superstition_, his record is unrivalled, even by _you_, dear Sir Harry."

That was one bit of good news to set against the oncoming catastrophe I could see barreling down on me. Ruffian Dick and I were much of an age, and his reputation for getting into, and out of, forbidden places full of savage niggers made even mine look rather second-rate. On this sort of biznai, there were few people I'd rather have along than Dick Burton. To add extra spice, he believed every word about my exploits and considered me a kindred soul. Many an evening we'd whiled away over drinks, yarning over various places we'd been, people we'd seen, and perils we'd escaped.

Of course, since wives were coming along, that meant putting up with that tedious rainy day he'd married, Isabel Arundell Burton. She could bore for England, and her idiotic attachment to the Catholic Church meant that she was forever and a day trying to convert everybody she met. As an atheist (attached C. of E.), I had had to tell her, politely but in clear English, that no, I was not interested in swimming the Tiber, and to leave me be. When I was out of Town, Elspeth had had words with her on the subject as well; afterwards, Isabel was reported to be sporting a black eye. Lucky that Dick was nowhere nearby. I don't _know_ that he'd have come after Elspeth and forced me to confront him…but it was better that it not come up at all. I'd no desire to square off with Ruffian Dick Burton, not with fists, blades, barkers or in any other way. Anybody who writes whole books about proper swordplay is too deadly for me.

Elspeth, being her usual self, homed in on the one detail I'd missed. "_Sir_? I hadn't known he had a knighthood, your Majesty. Or has he inherited a baronetcy?" She's the original snob, my Elspeth is, for all that her late father was nothing but a miserly Scotch mill-owner before our lunatic Government of the day ennobled him as "Lord Paisley." She could put on the fearfullest airs, Elspeth could. I've known duchesses (and not just in the carnal sense, thank'ee kindly, although I've had a few of 'em) who were much less concerned with titles, rank and protocol. Not that Elspeth was ever unkind.

Vicky smiled, looking like a contented toad. "We have _seen fit_ to grant _dear _Sir Richard the order of _Knight of St. Michael and St. George_, in recognition of his _services _to _Our Realm_." Well, this was a stunner and no mistake. I privately thought that Dick was far worthier of the allocade than any of the fatheads I knew who had it (and I include myself in that number) but his reputation, and his love of kicking sacred cows, should have prevented him getting anything of the sort. He'd offended too many powerful folk, and such people have ways of getting their own back, usually sneaky and roundabout. But if Vicky said it would be so…our sovereign lady may not have had much formal power, but she could face down any obstreperous Jack-in-office in her realm without breaking a sweat.

Well, I've always said, if there's no help for it, might as well at least put up a brave front while looking for a back way to slip out by. "Your Majesty? You haven't mentioned just where we're to go." Privately, I wondered if she planned to ship me back to India. God knows, I'd done enough there for her to think of Flashy if there was a bowl of steaming mulligatawny all ready for me to be thrown in. But India was quiet, as far as I knew, so where…?

"We have _decided_ that We need to send an envoy to _Westeros_. King Robert was _kind enough_ to send Us _envoys_, and We wish a _firmer tie_ between Our realm and the Seven Kingdoms." At the mention of Westeros, my stomach started feeling like a big cold owl was trapped in it and flapping to try to get out.

Had I been alone, I could have wept and danced with frustration. It wasn't fair, by Jove! I'd just come back from years of Hellish adventures, between being caught up in the Yanks' stupid, useless civil war, being a reluctant assistant to Wild Bill Hickok (not that he needed it; that man was all cold steel and rawhide, and one of the two fastest gunslicks it's ever been my pleasure to see; I'd have given good money to put him at his best up against Tiger Jack Moran and see who walked away) trying to save Max of Mexico's useless Hapsburg hide, evading an angry Austrian admiral, and finding myself the prisoner of a mad emperor in Abyssinia!(7) I'd had enough! I'd bloody well resign…but that blethering nitwit I'd married was burbling: "Oh, your Majesty! What an honour! I'm sure that my Harry will acquit himself with perfection! He's so intelligent, so strong, so brave…" And with those two women's eyes on me, I'd no choice (if I wanted to keep a shred of credit) but to face up to my fate.

"Very well," I said, trying to sound like a trip to Westeros was just what I wanted, and a jolly good idea. "When are we to leave?"

Vicky smiled, and Elspeth gave a squeal of glee and clasped her hands together. "We wish to give you _a few months_ to _settle things_ in England, dear Sir Harry," said our sovereign lady. "Therefore, you shall leave here in _four months' time_. The sailing should be _better_ then."

The rest of the audience was mercifully short. While our Vicky always had a partiality to me, with my six feet of dark good looks, lancer figure, and whiskers, and she couldn't help but like Elspeth (Elspeth's such a ray of sunshine that even other women take a shine to her, bless her) she did have other claims on her time. We were dismissed, and once I was back at Berkeley Square, I sat Elspeth down for some serious talk.

"Elspeth, darling, I want you to understand something. This is not just some house party. Westeros is seriously dangerous." That was an understatement, if anything. I'd read enough, and heard enough from folk who'd been there, to know that Westeros was, at best, a medieval mess, with a King whose morals would have shocked Jeendan(8), a court that made the Chinese court look straightforward and easy to understand, and not a drop of distilled liquor or a decent cheroot to bless itself with. Personally, I'd sooner have bearded Henry VIII than go within a thousand miles of the accursed place.

"But, Harry! How could I be in danger? I'll be with you, my jo! I remember how you protected me and kept me safe in Madagascar, when those awful folk were after us…"(9) I had to admit, Elspeth had a point. Then her eyes went all dreamy. "And I so look forward to meeting all those gallant knights, like heroes out of King Arthur's story! Maybe they'll have a tournament, and I might get crowned Queen of Love and Beauty! Would that not be wonderful, Harry?"

And that was another objection I had to this whole lunatic scheme. I knew my lawfully-wedded featherbrain, and I had no intention of standing by while she put horns on my head yet again with half the chivalry of Westeros. Like most of the women I knew, she'd been reading that fathead Tennyson's Idylls of the King, and I could just imagine her picturing herself as Guinevere or Igraine or one of the other noble sluts in those poems.

"In any case," Elspeth said, "the Queen requires it of us. You have always done your duty, my love, and now I must step up and do mine along with you. And we shall do credit to our country." That stopped my mouth, but good. Married men know that when two women make up their minds about something, no mere man can get in the way, but when one of them is the divinely-appointed monarch whose pop-eyed features are on all the coins, there's nothing for it. Elspeth came closer, and put her arms around me. "And it's early afternoon. Let's to bed early, dear." I saw a lecherous gleam in her eyes. "We shall soon be very busy, and I doubt there's much privacy for us on shipboard."

Elspeth had the right of it, and bed sounded just fine. I let her lead me away.

Footnotes:

[1] See _Tom Brown's Schooldays_.

[2] This occurred some time before _Flashman On The March_ begins. The Flashman papers do not as yet explain all the details, but somehow or other, Flashman made his peace with the French authorities.

[3] Admiral Tegethoff. See _Flashman On The March_.

[4] See _Flashman At The Charge_.

[5] See _Flashman_.

[6] See _Flashman and the Mountain of Light_.

[7] These adventures are detailed in _Flashman On The March_.

[8] Maharani Jeendan Kaur of the Punjab. See _Flashman and the Mountain of Light_.

[9] See _Flashman's Lady_. Flashman had been a prisoner of Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, while Elspeth had been concealed by the Queen's son. They escaped together under circumstances of great peril.

END Chapter 01


	2. Chapter 2

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 02

by Technomad

Kings Landing, seen from the sea, reminded me of Constantinople. The main difference was that there were no minarets, and that these fortifications were in full working order and manned. We'd made good time from Portsmouth, aboard _HMS Warrior_, with _HMS Black Prince_ and _HMS Penelope_ as escorts, along with several colliers. The sight of so many of our ironclads(1) making the trip was worrisome; for all of Vicky's reassurances, this meant that trouble was at least possible, and any sign of trouble in the future sends me in the other direction. That is, if I can do it.

Unfortunately, we were on shipboard, and not only was Elspeth standing right by me, but so was Ruffian Dick Burton, along with his tiresome wife. The Westerosi delegation was returning home as well, after marveling at the miracles of modern civilisation. They were led by a couple of knights, Ser Lancel Lannister, some sort of in-law of the King, and Ser Dontos Hollard. Two of the finest fools it's ever been my privilege to meet. Ser Lancel made my darling Elspeth look like a proper genius, and Ser Dontos could drink a sergeant's mess under the table. Keeping up with him at one of the banquets we'd been at together had been extremely difficult, and if I hadn't managed to pour half of my drinks into a nearby potted azelea, I'd have been out for the count before dessert. Introducing them to card games had been a joy, however. Along with some of my colleagues, I had led them down the primrose path, and shorn them like sheep. King Robert had sent them out very well-provided-for in money, and a lot of that money now reposed contentedly in my possession.

They'd worked out a treaty with that greasy sharper D'Israeli, where we would supply them with modern goods in exchange for first dibs on whatever wealth we could find. The poor dupes thought that they had struck a wonderful bargain; they were astonished at what even obsolete flintlock muskets could do.(2) We had carefully kept them away from demonstrations of our most up-to-date armaments, and were absolutely _not_ going to give them the formula for gunpowder, or show them how to make percussion caps. If trouble did arise, we didn't want to have to deal with enemies we'd armed ourselves. We'd learned that much from the Mutiny, at least.

"So that's Kings Landing," Dick commented. He gave the place a knowing look. "Rather reminds me of some Indian cities, doesn't it you, Sir Harry?"

I nodded. The details were different, but the overall effect was much the same. Including the smell. We were being given a "friendly" escort into the harbour by some royal galleys, and I could already smell the familiar smell. Beside me, Elspeth wrinkled her pretty nose, and a little way away, Isabel Burton raised a handkerchief to her face.

The harbour was too shallow for _Warrior_ to tie up next to the quays, so we anchored out in the middle, and disembarked on to a royal barge that took us to shore. To my surprise, the barge was steam-powered. We'd been in touch with Westeros for a decade, and there was already a small community of expatriated British and other folk from our world there, eagerly looking about for profit. Among them was one of my Scotch in-laws, Angus Morrison, Elspeth's first cousin and one of the few of that tribe other than Elspeth that I could stomach.

Elspeth, of course, had written to her cousin telling him that we were on the way. He had written back, and between his letters and the official reports we'd received, Dick and I had had some very interesting reading indeed. We had learned that the current King, Robert, was the first of his line to occupy the throne, having overthrown the previous dynasty a few years before contact had been made with our world. He had apparently once been a great warrior, but, according to Angus, he'd taken to drink, women and hunting as though they were all there were in life. I liked the sound of him, and thought we'd get on well.

Angus also said that the Throne was in Queer Street. The King spent money like it was going out of style, and was arse-over-tip in debt, both to a band of leeches called the "Iron Bank of Braavos" and to his in-laws. He had married into a very wealthy noble family, the Lannisters of Lannisport, and they seemed to be willing to finance him drinking himself to death. Again, this sounded very familiar. The Morrisons had once had such hopes of me, but I was alive and my miserly father-in-law was probably roasting in Hell, if there was any such thing as posthumous justice.

At the quay, we were met by a formation of knights, all of them wearing white cloaks over their armour. We recognised them as the Kingsguard, an elite formation of knights sworn to protect the King. They reminded me of what I'd read at school about the Knights Templar, being, like the Templars, sworn to chastity. How they recruited new members was beyond me; the thought of never touching a woman again was more than enough to make me shudder. Aye, well…the supply of ambitious fools never grows the less. Otherwise, how would Parliament go on?

Their leader, I noticed, was wearing golden, or at least gold-coloured, armour. When he came forward, took off his helmet, and bowed, I heard Elspeth gasp beside me, and Isabel Burton's eyes went very wide. The man was an absolute Adonis, damn him. I instantly resolved to be on my guard and keep an eye on my pretty little featherhead. Dick had less to worry about; from what I'd heard Isabel thought the sun rose and set on him. Even so, though, this man was a threat.

"You are the British delegation?" he asked. For some unfathomable reason, the Westerosi Common Speech was almost like English, and with a little study, all of us had learned to speak it and understand it fluently. I'd say it was more like English than that beastly gargle they speak in Scotland, but I'd say that about Chinese. "Welcome to Kings Landing. My name is Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard. I greet you in the name of my sovereign lord, Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Now, this was interesting. The reports, official and unofficial, we had received had had much to say about this man. He had been in the Kingsguard of the king before the current incumbent, the one they called "Mad King Aerys." When Robert Baratheon had raised his banner of revolt, the Lannisters had stayed out of it like sensible folk, until the time was right to kick the Mad King right in the danglies. Then the Lannister patriarch, Tywin Lannister, had persuaded the king to let his troops into the city, and once there, they had turned their coats and joined the rebellion.

To cap it off, Ser Jaime had so far forgotten his oaths to the Kingsguard as to push the Mad King right off the end of the wagon with his own hands. That had won him the name "Kingslayer." Having a chap with that nickname in his own special guard meant that either King Robert was extremely brave or barking mad. Or, as seemed likeliest, so drunk that he didn't much care. Of course, he was married to the Kingslayer's own twin sister. He might have felt that gave him some protection from Ser Jaime deciding to see if he could pull the same sort of trick twice.

We introduced ourselves, me keeping a wary eye on Elspeth as she looked the knights over, and formed up to go into the city to the Red Keep. We'd been given a detachment of Royal Marines, and I was damned glad to see 'em. For all that I'm a cavalryman myself, I'll admit freely that Her Majesty's Jollies are a reassuring sight to see when you're _in partibus infidelium_, as John Charity Spring might have said.(3) Even though I knew that in the event of real trouble, they'd not be able to protect us, I knew that they'd go down fighting, and hopefully, give me a chance to disappear.

Walking along beside me, Ser Lancel muttered: "This is Flea Bottom, Ser Harry. It's a bad part of town. The people here are drunkards, whoremongers, and whores." This caught my interest, and I looked around carefully, intending to come back and investigate when I got a chance to do so. To my eye, it was like the East End of London, or other such purlieus in our own capital city. The details were different, but the overall effect was much the same. And the people seemed reasonably healthy and well-fed, which was a good sign.

The Red Keep was one of the biggest fortresses it had ever been my privilege to see. Windsor may have covered more ground, but the Red Keep had very little open space beyond a couple of small courtyards. It made Jhansi and the other Indian fortress-palaces I had seen look rather tame. I was glad of our escort; the place was huge and labyrinthine, and I'd have soon been lost on my own.

The overall effect was very like what I imagine a medieval castle would have been like. Tapestries on the walls told stories I did not know, and torches burning in sconces provided light where the windows did or could not. I noticed, carven into the stone, things like a seven-pointed star, symbolic of the Faith of the Seven, and a three-headed dragon that symbolized the previous dynasty.

Finally, we reached the throne room. The Iron Throne loomed at one end of the chamber, high up on a dais over the main floor. As I'd been told, it was made of hundreds of swords, all of them fused together with dragonfire, but still sharp. It was said that the Throne would cut an unworthy person who dared to sit in it. The throne room was crowded; everybody wanted to see the English ambassador and his retinue arriving.

King Robert lolled in the Iron Throne. He looked to me like an old soldier, past his prime, content to sleep, eat, drink and fornicate his days away. He reminded me of my own guv'nor, truth be told, at least before the drink really got him and he had to be carted away to the blue-devil factory for the last time. I liked him immediately, and thought that he might make a jolly companion of an evening.

Below him on the steps leading up to the throne was his wife, Queen Cersei. She was standing close to her husband, but anybody could see that she detested him. She was a real beauty, blonde and blue-eyed with a figure that would bring a stone idol howling off its pedestal. Had we been in Britain, she'd have been the belle of the Season, with a train of admirers longer than Watling Street. I glanced at Elspeth, and saw that my sweet wife was giving the Queen a stony stare, which was being returned. To my surprise, Isabel Burton was also clearly not feeling friendly toward Queen Cersei. This did not bode well for our diplomacy. I made up my mind to have a talk with Elspeth and find out what had set her off so.

The heralds introduced the King and Queen, and then the rest of the members of the "Small Council," which is what the Westerosi call a Privy Council. The King's youngest brother, Renly, stood out from the rest. He was another Adonis, only dark where Ser Jaime was blond, with a dangerously slantendicular look in his eye. I could see Elspeth preening when his glance fell on her, and even Isabel Burton was clearly pleased by his looks. Aye, thought I, another one to watch.

Of the others, Varys, the "Master of Whisperers," or spymaster, was probably the most distinctive. He was clearly not a local man, and from his lack of beard and high voice, I was certain that he was an eunuch. I'd seen enough of 'em, in China and elsewhere, to know the look. Dick Burton looked intrigued. One of his hobbies where ever he went was investigating the local sexual curiosities, and, unlike me, he didn't confine himself to the brothels. He'd got himself into hot water with our prudish countrymen, since he published his findings and didn't care about hurting their sensibilities.

The Master of Coin, or treasurer, Lord Petyr Baelish, had a shifty, untrustworthy look about him, and I wondered if King Robert was mad, to trust such a man close to the fisc. In his boots, I'd not have let Lord Petyr so much as into the castle. He looked us over like we were livestock brought to market, and he was figuring how much he could make off us.

"Welcome to Westeros, Ser Richard, Ser Harry, and your ladies!" boomed King Robert. "Normally, We'd have a tournament in your honour…" I could see my silly wife perking up at that announcement… "but, unfortunately, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn,(4) has died unexpectedly and the court's in mourning." Elspeth drooped slightly. "We are planning a journey shortly, up to Winterfell in the north, to see Our good friend and comrade, Ned Stark, the Lord of the North. When We return, then we may well have a tournament. In the meantime, there shall be a feast tonight, in honour of your safe arrival."

The feast was everything I had ever imagined a medieval feast to be, complete with musicians scraping and twanging away in the galleries as we glutted ourselves down below. We sat through an invocation to the locals' Seven Gods, and Elspeth took it fairly well while Isabel Burton was plainly seething for the chance to make a rebuttal. I'd have sworn that Dick had her by the arm, very firmly, as long as the High Septon was droning on.

While Dick and I were both excellent sailors and had had no trouble with seasickness, our wives had suffered on the way to Westeros and were very glad of the food. Westerosi cuisine was rich and wonderful, and the wines were a revelation. To my relief, they had stuff called "strongwine" that I gathered was made by taking wine, freezing it, and throwing out the ice. It wasn't a patch on brandy, but it would do for the present.

When the feast was ended, we were shown to our quarters. We had a whole large tower to ourselves, and the Union Jack fluttered from its battlements to show that it was serving as the Crown's embassy in Westeros. Our Marine contingent were also sleeping there, in rooms that had been revamped into barracks. Our own chambers were richly, if barbarically, appointed, and I decided that the diplomatic service had its benefits. Instead of roasting or freezing on campaign, huddled in a tent and eating leather to keep from starvation, I was cosily ensconced in a luxurious set of chambers with my own beloved brainless beauty to keep me company and warm my bed. Aye, I thought to myself as I poured out another dose of strongwine, things could be much worse.

A tap at the door alerted me, and I sidled over to the door, signalling Elspeth to be quiet and putting my hand on the Colt Baby Dragoon I had in my pocket. I'd enough memories of Lahore, Jhansi, Tananarivo and Pekin to not let my surroundings put me off my guard completely. The door opened silently, and Dick Burton slipped in, quiet as a shadow.

He gestured for quiet, as Elspeth's eyes went wide. In a low voice, he said in Arabic: "Be very careful what you say in here. This tower is riddled with spy tunnels."

I looked around, but couldn't see any spy holes, which meant nothing at all. The furniture was heavy and hard to move, and could have concealed them easily. The decoration was overdone enough that they could have been lurking anywhere. I nodded.

Elspeth asked: "Harry? What's that language you're speaking?" I wrote the word "Arabic" down on a sheet of paper and handed it to her. Her eyes went wide. Elspeth may seem a fool, but I had told her more than enough for her to twig quickly that we were doing this to avoid being overheard. And Westeros had been in contact with our world long enough for them to have speakers of the commoner European languages about. Arabic, on the other hand, would almost certainly defeat them, and both Dick and I were fluent.(5)

"I don't trust that Varys creature as far as I could throw him," Dick went on, "and that treasurer's got a lean and hungry look about him, if ever I've seen one. We'd all best be on our toes, and if we really want to speak _sub rosa_, use languages that the locals won't understand." I nodded, and he slipped back out.

In a very low voice, and in French, which she did speak fluently, I explained what had just happened to Elspeth. Elspeth, to give her credit, twigged immediately to what we were doing. In French, she said "But of course, Harry. I can see how that would work in our favour. We are perfectly honest, but still, we don't want the local people to know everything that we're doing. And in this Varys' shoes, I'd have us watched without cease."

And then she wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a passionate kiss. She purred, in English this time: "Since we're sure they're watching us, my jo, let us give them something worth the watching!" I smiled, and began undoing her gown as she began unbuttoning my clothes.

_[1] Warrior_ was the first ironclad warship built for the Royal Navy. _Black Prince_ and _Penelope_ came later.

[2] As part of the treaty between Westeros and Great Britain, the British government sold thousands of obsolete "Brown Bess" muskets to Westeros, to re-equip the royal forces. The formula for gunpowder was kept a closely guarded secret, and gunpowder sales to Westeros were closely regulated.

[3] See _Flash for Freedom_! John Charity Spring (1810-1875), M.A., was a disgraced Oxford don who had captained the _Balliol College_ slaver on Flashman's involuntary voyage to the Slave Coast and North America in 1848. One of his distinctive habits was salting his speech with Latin tags, whether or no the hearers could understand them.

[4] Hand of the King was rather like an Eastern _vizier_. In the event of the King's incapacity or unavailability, he could make royal-level decisions as though he were king himself.

[5] One of the few Britons more multilingual than Flashman himself, Sir Richard Burton was said to speak thirty-nine languages fluently. His Arabic was good enough for him to pose as an Arab and make the pilgrimage to Mecca, where being exposed as a Christian would have meant instant death.


	3. Chapter 3

Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Three

by Technomad

Sure enough, in a few days the royal family set out to the North. From what I had heard, the North was a beastly cold, barren place, and Winterfell was a giant sepulchre, so I wasn't sorry to miss the journey at all. In any case, there was a great deal to be done in Kings Landing.

_Warrior_ and _Black Prince_ had to return to Britain; some fribbling crisis or other had come up, and their presence was needed to keep the foreigners in proper awe of the Widow at Windsor and the Royal Navy. At least _Penelope _was staying. There was a chance of the locals trying their luck against our merchant ships, and having the means at hand to deal firmly with such incidents was very comforting.

Meanwhile, Dick Burton took command of the embassy. "You know, Flash," he commented to me, "having the chance to set up an embassy along the _right_ lines is something I never thought to get the chance to do. I don't want to waste it!" Me, I'd have been happy to waste it, but under Dick's sharp eye, we all had no choice but to turn to and show good. Aye, well…I figured that the drinking kens and other places of low amusement down in Flea Bottom would still be there when we were done. And the food, lodgings and other comforts (Elspeth at the top of the list) were top-notch while we worked.

There was much to do, refurbishing our tower to proper standards. One of the first things we got at was erecting a tall mast on top of the tower, rigged to allow flag signals to be flown from it. From the parapets of our tower, the harbour was clearly visible, and _Penelope_ could see and answer our signals. "Even though relations are smooth now, there's no harm in being careful," said Ruffian Dick. As you can no doubt imagine, I agreed wholeheartedly. We also installed a heliograph. I'd seen 'em in use enough times to know how useful they are.

That wasn't the only precaution we took. We hauled in heavy crates, which turned out to contain Gatling guns and ammunition for them, and set them up at points that commanded the entrances to the tower. The Westerosi had no idea what Gatlings could do; the poor fools who'd gone to Britain had been carefully kept away from any close sight of modern weapons. Even Brown Bess was miles ahead of anything they had.(1) They had no idea of how much more accurate our Sniders were, or how much faster we could load them. (2)

"That will be a surprise for them, if things turn ugly," said Dick, giving me a wink. I smiled to myself. I'm a practicing coward, unlike Dick, and the thought of having thick stone walls and Gatling guns manned by Marines between me and any howling mobs of enemies that might turn up felt very good.

We also met the members of the local British community. About five minutes after Westeros' existence, and the means to travel between it and Britain, had been revealed, there'd been a stream of people looking to try their luck on this virgin continent. Some of 'em were ne'er-do-wells, many one jump ahead of the law back in Blighty, or in the colonies. Others weren't.

Once we'd put our tower to rights, an invitation went out to all Britons in Kings Landing, to come to the embassy for a reception. We'd spared no expense; Ser Dontos' and Ser Lancel's money had been put to good use, even with me and the others who'd fleeced those fools dipping our sticky hands in the till, and we were able to hire the best entertainers and cooks Kings Landing boasted.

On the night, my beloved scatterbrain was all a-twitter. "Oh, Harry, I'm so looking forward to this! There'll be _dancing_! And _music_! And _guests_!" Like all of us, Elspeth had been working hard to get the embassy up and on a business basis, and to my surprise, she had proven useful. She'd helped hire the servants we needed, and had shown herself to be a shrewd bargainer when the subject of their wages came up. I guess that you can take the girl out of Scotland, but never Scotland out of the girl.

"And you, m'dear, will be the belle of the ball…as always," I said. Even though I knew my husbandly duty, I was telling the truth for once. Elspeth did look radiant. She'd a gown on that was the latest fashion from Paris, and she looked utterly radiant in it. She'd gained a stone or so since our marriage, but it was in all the right places. She saw the look in my eye, and moved away, laughing.

"No, Harry, my jo, I've just finished making myself presentable," she purred, knowing that I was thinking seriously of forgetting the reception and grabbing her and exercising the _droit du seigneur_ on her. The medieval atmosphere had got my mind running along those lines. She was by no means averse, from the gleam in her eyes, but we both really did have to go to the reception. The looks she gave me, and the way she squeezed my hand, though, told me that we'd have a happy, exhausting time of it later.

The guests were a very mixed bag, unlike the usual run of house-parties back Home. The local contingent of God-botherers were out in full force. Clergymen can smell free food from fifty miles away. There was also an assortment of mercantile types, all hoping to make fortunes selling cheap machine-made cloth and such to the Westerosi, at prices that would make a Bombay Jew turn green with envy.

David Livingstone was there, of course. The second he'd heard of Westeros' existence, he'd abandoned Africa as though it were a creditor he couldn't pay, heading as fast as he could for a whole continent of people ripe for conversion in a climate that mightn't kill him. While I can take missionaries or leave 'em alone (preferably the latter) I couldn't find it in me to blame him for that decision. I'd seen more than enough of Africa, and personally, wouldn't go back there for a peerage and pension.

With his African laurels fresh on his brow, he was leader by right of the Bible-mongers, at least the Protestants. Isabel Burton's eyes lit up at the sight of the Catholic contingent, and soon they were deep in discussion of how to best get all the Westerosi to swim the Tiber. _Good luck to you_, _Isabel_, I thought; from my own experience of foreign parts, the local people were generally perfectly satisfied with their existing religions, and not amenable to changing just because some foreign busybodies said they should.

And unlike your typical Mumbo-Jumbo-land tribe, the locals here had a sophisticated religious establishment already in place. I'd not really looked into it in any detail, but with a High Septon, or highest priest, and a hierarchy of priests in place below him, the Faith of the Seven did not look like it would be easy to supplant. I didn't _know _that the locals went in for things like heresy trials or killing unbelievers, but I also didn't know that they _didn't_. As a long-time pagan (attached C. of E.; I read the lessons on important church holidays and keep in well with my vicar up at Ashby, but that shouldn't be confused with belief in God) I'd keep well out of conflicts with the Faith, and had cautioned Elspeth to do likewise. If Dick Burton couldn't keep his wife out of trouble with those people, back she'd have to go. Oh, what a tragedy that would be.

Livingstone came over to buttonhole Dick and me. While I considered him an utter ass, I had to admit that his African travels qualified him to be there in Westeros. He had been travelling about, and had a lot of information to share about the country, so we were glad to speak with him.

"Ambassador, Sir Harry, it's an honour to meet you both at last! I've followed the reports of your exploits avidly! May I tell you about my travels on this continent?" At least he wasn't havering on about whether Dick and I had accepted Jesus as our personal savior or not. I can take religious folk or leave 'em alone (the latter for preference) but many of them do try my patience with their eternal concern about my alleged soul. Particularly when so many of 'em are whited sepulchres themselves.

We agreed, and he took us over to a wall where a large map of Westeros was pinned up. Livingstone began pointing out places on the map, places that meant nothing to me at the time. "Well, we've established a congregation at Lannisport, here on the western coast. So far, none of the nobles have shown any interest, but we've a good few of what they call the 'smallfolk' at least listening to our preaching. That'll be important; the Lannisport area's got gold mines. That's why the Lannister family, the ruling local nobles, are so important. They could be valuable allies."

This was why Dick and I hadn't brushed the tiresome pest off. One of our assigned goals was to open Westeros to European, especially British commerce. Had my father-in-law been alive, he'd have been slavering at the thought of all those Westerosi wearing cheap calico woven in his mills, with the profits going straight into his pockets. Since he was dead (and roasting in Hell, if there's any post-mortem justice) it was my beloved Elspeth's cousin, Angus Morrison, who stood to rake in the gold.

And, speak of the Scotsman, there he was. "Hullo, Harry! Glad ye could make it here! Is this no' a grand castle?" Dick and David both gave him questioning looks, and I hastened to make introductions. "Aye, I've heard of ye, Sir Richard. Read yer book aboot yer trip tae Mecca! An' every Scot kens the name of David Livingstone!" Both of them lapped the flattery right up. Angus was smooth. I happened to know that he _had_ read Dick's tedious book (the man's life was wildly adventurous, but his writing was dreary beyond all belief), but his real opinion of missionaries was akin to mine: that they were, on the whole, a tiresome bunch of troublemakers whom H.M.G. would be much better off telling that if they insisted on meddling in others' affairs, it was at their own risk. However, my pious countrymen would never have stood for _that_. So we poor redcoats would be stuck hauling the God-botherers' hot chestnuts out of the fire, forever and ever and ever.

Angus was full of news of his own: "We've found coal, an' there's lots of streams that we can dam for power! Wi' that, we can be settin' up factories a' over the place! His Majesty's verra interested in our plans. We've promised him a distillery, first thing!"

From what I'd seen and heard of King Robert, I'd wager that he'd sell his firstborn for a distillery. About the only faster way into his good graces would likely be a whorehouse. After my experiences in Santa Fe, I could have helped out with _that_, had Elspeth and Isabel Burton not been along.

"Do they grow tobacco here at all?" I wanted to know. While I had a good supply of cheroots along, I was conscious that they were probably among the only ones in all Westeros. Ensuring myself a supply of the weed would be a project after my own heart. Of course, I could send to Britain, but I have had enough sure-fire schemes go sour to want to ensure success if at all possible. And tobacco was a lucrative crop at home; possibly we could invest enough money to augment Elspeth's fortune significantly. Much as I love her, I must admit that my sweet featherbrained wife has a greed past all satisfying.

"No, that they dinnae," said Angus. "Now that ye mention it, though, I could poke aroun' an' see if the soil's right. There might be mony ither crops they dinnae hae that'd dae well here. An' puttin' brass in these nobles' pockets'd be a guid thing. They've got the right o'high an' low justice, an' havin' them see us as guid tae hae about would make things surer."

That made excellent sense. But then, nobody ever went wrong by counting on a Scotsman's money sense. I don't know if it's because they live in the arse-end of Britain in a place where the animals have to run from one blade of grass to the next to avoid starvation or not, but every one of those tartan buggers could smell a farthing from a hundred miles away, and would do whatever he could to get it. Even my loving Elspeth gets excited about raking in a few more coins: "mony a mickle mak's a muckle," to put it in her own Caledonian dialect.

Just then, I heard a familiar voice at my ear. The sound of it was enough to send my heart sinking into my boots. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the famous Sir Harry Flashman! Very long time no see! Aye, _gratis superveniet quae non sperabitur hora_,(3) as I seem to remember saying to you once before! Every time I see you, you've gone up in the world since I saw you last!" With my blood turning to ice in my veins, I turned to find myself confronted with one of the last people I ever wanted to see again. John Charity Spring, sometime Oriel scholar (4), sometime captain of the _Balliol College_ slaver (5), sometime South African magnate (6), and all-time murderous lunatic, was standing there, his pale eyes blazing out of a face twisted into a smile that would scare a tiger.

He had changed little since I'd seen him last, as he had me shanghaiied off to North America. He was still the same burly bargee I remembered, gray-haired and older than I, but well able to look out for himself in a brawl, as I'd discovered in New Orleans and elsewhere (7). The scar across his forehead, which turned redder the angrier he was, was pale, so at least he was in what passed, in him, for a good mood.

He saw my expression. "Aye, 'tis me! When I heard of this whole new world, all ripe for British commerce, I was right here as quickly as I could put things in train! _Carpe diem_! With my loving Miranda now safely married off…an' to a man who owns half the Cape…there was little holding me in Africa. And plenty of good opportunities for me here! _Ex Westeros hodie aliquid novi_!"(8) His cold pale eyes ranged over the company. "Care to introduce me to your friends?"

I'd sooner have bidden 'em to supper at Castle Borgia, but needs must when the devil vomits into your pantaloons. "Elspeth, may I present Captain John Charity Spring, M.A.? Captain, my wife, Lady Flashman. And this is Sir Richard Burton," Dick raised one eyebrow and gave Spring stare-for-stare, but he was always a fearless bugger, "David Livingstone, and Angus Morrison. Mr. Morrison is my lady wife's cousin."

To my surprise, Spring stepped forward, gallantly kissing Elspeth's hand. "Your humblest servant, m'lady," he said, smooth as though he were being presented at Buck House, damn his impudence. "And I've followed your adventures, Sir Richard, but hadn't heard of your knighthood till recently. Livingstone and Morrison I've met." They all nodded. Livingstone was looking at him as though Spring was something he'd scraped off his shoe. (9) Well, the British colony in Kings Landing wasn't that big, and I should've thought that if Spring was a member, he'd've run across them before. "Aye, well, it's getting late. I'm for bed." And he turned and walked off through the crowd, leaving me quaking in my boots. I knew him well, and knew the awful turns that diseased intelligence of his could take. What might he do now that we were in the same town again?

[1] Before contact with nineteenth-century Earth, Westeros, and the other countries in its world, had been at a roughly medieval level for millenia. "Brown Bess" - the standard British flintlock musket used during the 18th and early 19th centuries - had many advantages over their traditional weapons, ease of use and training being among them.

[2] The British .577-caliber Snider-Enfield was a breech-loader, the first cartridge-loading firearm used in the British service. It was roughly equivalent to the American "trapdoor" Springfield.

[3] "The happy hour will come, more gratifying for being unexpected."

[4] Spring had once been a don at Oriel College, Oxford, until his expulsion from the college and university. The _Flashman Papers_ do not include the reason for his dismissal.

[5] When Flashman first met him, Spring was the captain of a bark-rigged sailing ship, the _Balliol College_, used to transport slaves from Africa to Cuba in the illicit "triangle trade." This was illegal under international law, but highly profitable.

[6] After an involuntary voyage to South Africa, Spring became a great landowner in the Cape Colony.

[7] See _Flashman and the Redskins_.

[8] "Today something new out of Westeros!"

[9] Livingstone was a prominent anti-slavery crusader, and may well have got wind of Spring's earlier adventures in the "black ivory" trade.


End file.
